Display by Label: Art

On my days off, I'd visit Juan. It was like my day at school. Because I was young and new to bartending. And Juan, who was a good ten years my senior, worked at one of the busiest Mexican cantinas in Dallas. He was, unequivocally, a bad-ass. And I felt like if I put in enough time observing him, that I too would be a bad-ass. So I'd drop in during happy hour and order an appetizer of chicken-spinach quesadillas. And Juan would hook me up with free margaritas because he knew I was good for it. And we'd talk about the business and I'd try to get him to tell me what made the margaritas there so damn good. But he was tight-lipped about that shit, and I respected him for it.

It's going to sound like hyperbole for me to say this, but Juan was a great bartender. He was, perhaps, the greatest bartender, at least for the type of place where he worked. And in the buzzing hurricane of that restaurant on a Friday or Saturday night, he was the calm absence of wind at the center. People standing five deep at that small bar, Chopper rumble all around in the warm Texas air, the service well ticking off orders from the floor, the flicking of bottle caps, the pouring of drinks, the placement of limes, the thwap-thwaping of dollar bills, the clinking of change—little snapshots of action taking place outside the context of time.

It's difficult to explain what exactly made him great. You could point to how he would hold the arch of a tequila pour in the air with the bottle high above it, keeping it all suspended there for a second, frozen in place, and then bringing the whole thing back, like a film wound in reverse, double speed, cutting off the pour with a snip and dropping the bottle back in the well. Then the click of the metal tumbler on glass, a twirl, before pouring it through a salted rim. You could point to that. And that would be part of it. Or you could point to more abstract things, like a correctly-placed smile to the right girl. Because even though he had a bit of a spare tire and wasn't some tall, handsome stereotype of good-looking-ness, he had the charm, and the girls would flirt with him. So yeah, you could point to that, and you'd be partially right.

But I guess if I had to peg it down, I would say the thing that made him a "great" bartender had something to do with the fact that he was always aware of what was going on at his bar, and he always knew what he was going to do next. And here's the key: when he did it, he did it in such a way that it didn't call attention to itself. It would happen, and then only afterwards you would realize, oh ... that just happened. Because he didn't move in a way that was calculated or deliberate. He didn't seem to be thinking about it. And most likely, he wasn't.

Watching instinct and muscle memory in action is a funny thing. They behave differently than premeditation, and carefully considered, conscious movement. And you can see the difference when you watch people who are good at what they do. Something takes over their presence. A sort of voodoo happens. You know it when you see it. And you know when you don't see it. And that's about all you can say about it. Instinct, muscle memory—combined with knowledge, they lead to an ability to improvise. And that's when you know you're watching something unique and remarkable. We tend to speak of this sort of thing when we talk about musicians and artists, but we don't always bring it up when we talk about everyday professions.

But it's there.

Do this: put a bottle of beer on a rubber bar mat and take a flat-style bottle opener and, without holding onto the bottle with your free hand, snap the cap off of it. Do it as quick as you can. Just lift that sucker off with one quick motion. It's doable, but not easy. And you'll look awkward doing it. And you'll probably knock the beer over on your first couple of attempts. Now, try this: with your free hand, try pouring a drink while the other hand opens the bottle. Knocked anything over yet? I think the first time I knew Juan was "great" at what he did, was when he did this. He was in the middle of pouring a drink, and as he held the pour with one hand, he took his opener out of his back pocket with the other, popped the caps on a couple of Corona bottles. Then he stuck the opener back in his pocket as he finished the pour, the caps clapping on the floor at his feet, the bottles just standing there on the mat, frozen in place, like a couple of stone pillars. It had been so effortless, non-calculating. He didn't think, I will pour this drink while I open these bottles. He just did it. And the expression on his face—that was part of it, too. Nonchalant, he didn't expect to be congratulated or anything. Part of what made it cool was that he did it all. But most of what made it cool was how he did it. And the fact that there was some doubt in my mind as to whether or not he even consciously knew he had done it.

I'm going to sound pretentious and haughty saying this, but I'm going to say it anyway, because I really don't think I sound pretentious and haughty nearly enough these days: if you sit at enough bars, you'll notice that the vast majority of bartenders really shouldn't be there. They don't really understand the job, and the truth is they don't really care. And most of them get by just fine that way. Because in general, we don't really care, either. We don't expect a lot from our bartenders. We just need bartenders to pour our drink and do it in the least amount of time possible. Also, the drinks we order, in general, are no-brainers. As a result, old-style bartenders who know "real" cocktails are on the decline. When we do find a bartender who knows a bit more, or who goes above and beyond, we're pleasantly surprised maybe, but we don't give it more thought than that. We don't necessarily want or need our bartenders to be "professionals" anymore.

But the problem isn't just that we expect less. It's also the fact that most establishments seem to care more that their bartenders are sexy than whether or not they're any good at what they do. As a result, you tend to find a lot of bartenders who think being professional means being beautiful and having attitude. They think it's those things that make them a bad-ass. I'm all for having attitude. Sometimes it can be important, as a means to an end. But it's not an end in itself. Also, I'm all for being beautiful, but if I wanted to have those people pouring my beer, with their cleavage and manicured nails everywhere, I'd go to Hooters or a just skip the pretense altogether and visit a titty bar. Frankly, I'd much rather somebody like Juan serve my drinks. The pros, the ones who seem to have nothing to prove, who wipe out your ashtray before you even realize it, who pay attention to your pace and who know even before you do that you'll want another drink or that you're finished, who can carry on a conversation while holding down the bar, who make their presence known by the fact that you never really need to ask them for anything, they're the ones operating on instinct and an understanding of the game. And they're increasingly hard to find.

Okay. Pretentious and haughty diatribe over. Back to your regularly scheduled programming ...

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Game_Theory  Dallas  Chewing  Art 

The writing workshop I'm taking at NYU is going really well. For the first time, I've shown a section of the novel I'm working on to somebody other than myself. And that's been constructive, because myself tends to nit-pick relentlessly and is, overall, a huge asshole. So I've appreciated getting some perspectives that are more objective and less ... dickish. It's given me a good feel for what's working in the thing and what isn't, and it's really helped me zero in on the important plot bits. My prof is great, too. I have to say, he's very good at being positive while pointing out things that are problematic in your story or with your prose. I've been involved in several workshops over the years and I know that this is a real skill that not every professor has.

Anyway, recently the prof asked us to bring to class a writing sample (somebody else's work) that we find "beautiful" or "dangerous." My first thought was: beautiful OR dangerous? Isn't that redundant? I thought better than to correct him. It's been a while since college, but I seem to recall that correcting the prof never goes over well.

I like the idea that something dangerous can be beautiful and it usually turns out this way in artwork that speaks to me. In writing, for instance, I like authors such as Martin Amis, Hunter S. Thompson and Ernest Hemingway. To me, these are all writers whose prose has a degree of danger to it, but at the same time is beautiful to read. In film, one of my favorite movies is Pulp Fiction, which I think is one of the great examples of danger and beauty for the risks it takes both stylistically and with plot. My favorite painters are the abstract expressionists from the 50s: Rothko, Motherwell, Pollock, artists who, as I think art critic Clement Greenberg used to say, "did battle" with the canvas. The movement was about the artist as hero, somebody who took risks, delving into the sub-conscious, the imagination, the mythic. Somebody who searched for "truths" through their art and in doing so, became a sort of "existential matador." (Again, I think this was Greenberg's phrase, but I can't find the quote). In music, I'm a huge fan of 50s and 60s jazz, which to me is about these same ideas of "artist as hero." The whole idea of improvisation and play in art gets to the root of a beauty that is mixed with a sort of inherent danger as the artist engages in an exploration of the unknown and a sort of "competition" with the other musicians.

Interestingly, I should point out, that the beauty/danger rule doesn't necessarily apply to things that aren't art. For instance, I was lucky enough to receive a tick bite over the weekend. As it turns out, tick bites are dangerous, but there's really not much beauty in them. All I've discovered so far is annoyance, along with a general anxiety about bacteria and Lyme's disease. I don't recommend them. Now, a photo of my tick bite, taken at a certain angle and with the right lighting ... that might be beautiful and dangerous. I'm just not sure if I'm talented enough as a photographer to pull that off.

Anyway, back to the assignment ... after I figured out what my prof meant (translation: bring something to class that is fucking brilliant), I knew exactly what it would be, and it should come as no surprise to anybody reading this blog: the first couple of paragraphs of chapter one of London Fields.

I thought it would be fun to post the passage here, though I do feel a little weird about it. First of all, even though I named this site after one of the main characters from the same book from which the passage is taken, this isn't a "fan site" by any means and I don't want it to be. So maybe posting a long passage from the book would be awkward or a conflict of interest. This could be the case, or I could just be over-thinking it. I decided it was probably the latter. Secondly, it's a long passage, and I don't want to piss off any attorneys out there that might be concerned about copyrights. But you can also read the full passage (and more) here if you want so it's not like this is the only place you can find it online. And I'm not making any financial gain from it, so it's hard to get mad at me over it, right? I finally decided to just just post it and stop thinking about it. Here you go:


I love this passage. It's dark, and funny, and it feels dangerous—and therefore beautiful. Stuff like this is the reason I want to write. Parts of it read like a poem to me. Of course, this is something that's totally subjective, one of those things I think you either feel and love or you don't. When I read this, I catch glimpses of God. When you read it, you might just see words on a page. I accept that. It's why some of you may scroll through this post, bored as shit, while some of you may read it all the way through (still bored, mind you, but perversely interested in exercises of self-torture). It's my taste, and you don't have to agree with me on its quality or correctness. (It's just that if you happen to disagree, you're clearly wrong. And that's okay—it's okay to be wrong.)

So what about you, then? If you made it this far, is there something you find beautiful and dangerous. Or something that is beautiful to you because it's dangerous?

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Writing  Art 

It was fitting that I was in Montréal the day Oscar Peterson died. It's weird, because I've actually discovered a number of interesting parallels between my life and the life of my favorite piano player. Of course, there's the obvious one in that we both loved the piano. (Though there is an entire universe of difference between what he heard and produced with that instrument and what I hear and produce with it.) But here are a few other similarities: Peterson was born and got his start in Montréal, which is a city that, for an entirely unrelated set of reasons, has become dear to my heart in the last 10 years. Peterson's birthday was the same as my mom's (though he was many years her senior.) He lived the latter part of his life in Mississauga, Ontario which is where C was born. He had a life-long interest in photography (Quicktime Movie). And get this, he was a freakin' blogger, which is something I only recently discovered. How cool is that?

And you might say: Come on Dave, these are just coincidences. Millions of people, for one reason or another, love Montréal. And so what if he had the same birthday as your mom. Or that he blogged. A lot of people blog these days. A lot of people enjoy photography. Don't you think it's a stretch to call these things "life parallels?"

Well, maybe . . . okay, okay . . . probably. I mean, yes, I hear what you're saying. But I've always believed there are no coincidences in life. That lives cross, planets align, systems spin . . . because they were meant to. And if given the chance, things will ultimately come full circle. But this post isn't about all that . . . well, not outwardly, anyway . . . though, in a way, I kind of think . . . well, isn't every post about that in one way or another? Okay. Sorry. Enough.

Let's focus on the important thing here: Oscar Peterson. He was quite probably the best jazz pianist, hell the best pianist period in our lifetime. And perhaps ever. And I know . . . this is a whole lot of hyperbole I'm throwing out. I mean, this kind of thing is subjective, after all. Isn't it? Calling an artist or musician "the best" is like an Italian kid calling his grandmother's meatballs "the best." One day that kid realizes that every other Italian kid he meets thinks their grandmother's meatballs are "the best." There are definitely people out there who are not crazy about OP's style. They think, perhaps, that he played "too many notes." This is a criticism which I think is crazy, by the way. I do happen to think there are jazz pianists out there who play too many notes. But that's only because they're the wrong fucking notes. When the notes being played are all the right notes at all the right times, there can't be too many of them. It doesn't make sense. It's like somebody complaining that there are too many gorgeous women in skimpy two-pieces at the beach. What are you saying? Do we speak the same language? Sorry . . . I tend to get emotional about this stuff. I will just have to concede that not everybody loves OP's style. But I think you'll find that, even among OP's critics, there isn't too much debate about his reign as a technical virtuoso on the keys. And when you add that technical expertise to his impeccable sense of rhythm and his natural talent for improvisation, which he always seemed to make sound more like an "instant composition" (his words) than some random, conceptual mixture of scales, what you wind up with is somebody more akin to a modern-day Beethoven then perhaps any other pianist/composer since his time. There. I said it. You disagree? What, you think your grandmother makes better meatballs than mine, too? Okay, that's fine. It's just that, unfortunately, you're wrong. On both fronts. But that's okay. Really. Don't feel bad. We can't all be right about everything. There's plenty I've been wrong about as well. Just read my archives.

For the record, I had several false starts in writing this post. For one thing, I didn't want the tone to be too heavy or somber. It's sad news that Oscar Peterson died, but he was 82, after all, and I kind of think he wouldn't want people drowning in tears or anything. His music was celebratory. The other problem I had getting this post off the ground was that each time I wound up going off on this conceptual, academic-sounding tangent about improvisation and competition in jazz music. About how all great art comes from these elements and Peterson is a prime example of that. About how, in Peterson's words, improvisation and one-upmanship allows "moments of great beauty to emerge." And this is all great stuff, to me. I kind of love talking theory when it comes to art and the creative process. And believe me, I'll definitely find ways to work this stuff into future riffs (and do it in a way that hopefully does not induce sleep or glazed eyes). But for this riff here it seems less important to dwell on that stuff (even though I just did — damn I need an editor) when what I really want to talk about is Peterson's music, and the great effect it had on me over the years, and how yeah it's sad he's gone, but how wonderful it is that his music will stay with us indefinitely, and how lucky we are that we live in an age where all of those many improvisations are recorded for history, unlike with Beethoven, who's stuff only survives on the page.

I figured the best contribution I could make to the fray of voices out there on blogs who are all writing about Peterson's death and what it means to them and to the world of music would be to simply describe why I liked his playing so much, and why it had the effect on me it did. And that seems easy at first. But it's not. The problem is that it's always difficult to describe why art appeals to you, or to explain the emotional response you get from a certain artist, or "art object" or performance. It usually boils down to some version of "I like it." That's really as far as you can go with the thing, because you can't "implant" the feeling in somebody else. You get a little closer to being able to describe it when you find other people who appreciate the same piece of art. Then, you have a shared language with them. Or rather, the communication doesn't rely so much on the language. And you get that affirmation. That conversation might go something like this: "Shit. Do you hear that?" And the response: "I hear it. It's good." Ah, sweet validation.

The best way I've found to describe that moment when a piece of art hits you in all the right ways is to say it's like I'm catching glimpses of God. Now, I'm not particularly religious. I mean, don't get me wrong, I do have a "spiritual side." But I haven't managed to consistently dedicate myself to going to church or anything. I've just never felt that going to church and "practicing" religion would necessarily make me any more liked or disliked by what I believe to be a benevolent God. I can't imagine that an all-knowing, all-seeing Being would be that petty. And if God isn't benevolent? If he's all brimstone and damnation? Well, I guess I wouldn't necessarily want to be loved by that kind of God, anyway. I like to think God is the type of God that would just show up at your door one day with a really cool object and just be like, "Hey man, take a look at this thing I brought you. Isn't it fucking amazing? I'm partly responsible for it existing, you know. Don't forget it, brother." And what I can tell you — and it would be the truth — is that when I listen to Oscar Peterson, I believe I'm running into this kind of God. Because I can't imagine any other way those sounds could be produced other than through some divine communion. And when it happens, when I'm witness to this kind of thing, my reaction is usually a combination of wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. And my heart races a little bit. And it's hard to breathe. And for a moment I think there can't possible be anything better in the world than this right here. And yeah man, I hear it. I won't forget.

So there it is. And instead of talking about it at any more length, I'm just going to point to a couple of my favorite Oscar Peterson recordings. The first I happened to find video for on YouTube, which is very lucky and convenient. Hopefully it'll stay up there for at least the next couple of weeks or so. It's a recording of "You Look Good to Me" and it's from a session he did at the Montreux Jazz Festival in '77. There are two great Oscar Peterson live recordings that came out of the festival that year. One is titled, simply, The Oscar Peterson Jam. In this one, he's joined by Neils Orsted Pedersen on bass, Bobby Durham on drums, Dizzy Gillespie and Clark Terry on trumpets, and Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis on tenor sax. It is an unbelievable session. The other is titled The Bassists, and it's just Peterson playing with the two bassists he played with most often in his career: Ray Brown and Niels Orsted Pedersen. The clip below is from that session and it's great to watch because it really cuts to the heart of what I love about jazz — the tension between the two types of games being played here, one of just having fun and "getting high," the other a good natured competition propelling things forward. Watch their expressions. The sweat. The casual trade off of licks. (If you've got headphones, plug 'em in.)



The other recording I wanted to share is one I couldn't find already online anywhere, so I'm putting it on my server. It's the first time I've posted music on my site and it could prove to be a bad idea. But I love the track and had to include it in this post. This track plays like a story to me. And just for the record, if anybody out there with an expensive lawyer ever wants me to take this recording down, I'd be more than happy to do so. Just let me know. :-). The track is called "Peace for South Africa." It's a bluesy ballad Peterson himself wrote. This performance was recorded during the "Live at the Blue Note" series he did with Ray Brown, Bobby Durham, and Herb Ellis in 1990. I highly recommend any of the CD's from this concert series, particularly the first one, which is where this recording comes from (note: if you're in a Feed Reader, you may have to click through to the post to listen):


A few years after this concert, Peterson suffered a stroke which laid him up for a couple of years. But eventually, even with limited hand strength, he still continued to play shows in the late 90's and early 2000's. Peterson died of kidney failure on December 23rd, 2007. He was 82. Thank you, Mr. Peterson for your music. And I hope wherever you are you're still jamming, and catching your own brief glimpses of God.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Serendipity  Oscar_Peterson  Music  Game_Theory  Art 

For the last couple of days, Amy has been in town visiting us from Dallas. C and I have taken her to all of our DC-area haunts for food and beverages at night. And for non-caloric entertainment, Amy and I have been consumming art from the Hirschorn, National Gallery, and The Phillips. The ladder really had an impact on me this time, partly because I haven't been to the Phillips in a few years, and the last time I was there they were renovating, so a lot of the collection was not on display. This time, I saw some stuff I'd never seen in person before, which was exciting. Also, I was pretty impressed with the Klee exhibit. It showcases a lot of great watercolors and oil-transfers which, according to the literature from the exhibit, have rarely been seen. The show is only running for a few more weeks (until Sept. 10th) so if you're at all interested in the kind of primitive, child-like styling of Paul Klee, I would highly recommend going. Also, anybody who likes the Phillips but who hasn't been back since the renovations have been completed should definitely make a trip over there. Really nice.

So even though it's technically Amy's vacation, it's been kind of a mini-vacation for me, as well, walking around abandoned DC in August with the other tourists, visiting the galleries, admiring the Capitol, checking out the sniper on the roof of the White House, and viewing the Lincoln at night. Good fun.

Safe travels back to Big D, Amy!

link to this | comments (2) | File:  DC  Art  Friends